“Do not worry,” Miss Beaumont whispered conspiratorially, leaning closer. “He never told me that either.”
Elowen wasn’t sure how to reply. Fortunately, her father spared her the trouble.
“You give me too much credit, Your Grace.”
“And you, too little,” the Duke replied. “I have never forgotten your kindness.”
“It seems you made quite the impression, my lord,” Miss Beaumont said brightly. Elowen found herself liking her—the girl’s confidence was tempered by warmth, a combination Elowen had always admired.
Her Grace gasped softly. “Oh! Where are my manners? I have not introduced you to my niece.” She gestured toward Miss Beaumont with a gloved hand. “This is my dear niece, Miss Catherine Beaumont. Catherine, allow me to present Lord Trenton and his daughter, Miss Elowen Tremaine.”
Catherine curtsied. “It is a pleasure to meet anyone my aunt and cousin hold in such high regard,” she said to Papa.
“My lord.” The Duke’s attention returned to her father. Elowen felt a small, foolish pang of disappointment and swiftly smothered it. “How fares your health?”
Papa’s brows—of the same soft brown as his daughter’s—rose slightly. “Well enough, though I have certainly fared better. But it is nothing of concern.”
Quite the understatement. Since the scandal, his health had waned steadily. There were days when he could scarcely rise from bed or keep down a meal. Today had been one of those days, yet he had insisted upon attending despite her protests.
Now she knew why. The Duke of Beaushire looked at her father with the same concern she felt.
“Something tells me it is not quite as you would have it seem,” he said gently. “But I will not press the matter. Only promise me you will take better care in future.”
“Certainly, Your Grace. My daughter would never forgive me if I did not.”
The Duke’s gaze flicked toward Elowen—briefly, yet with such force that her breath caught.
“That,” he said quietly, “is something we appear to have in common.”
And before she could make sense of that remark, he addressed her directly. “Miss Tremaine, may I have this next dance?”
His request stunned them all. Elowen might have laughed at the identical expressions of surprise on the dowager’s and Miss Beaumont’s faces—the latter’s mouth had fallen open—had she not been so dazed herself.
Somehow, she managed to speak without sounding as thrown as she felt. “It would be an honour, Your Grace.”
If she had drawn notice while dancing with the Marquess of Cherrington, it was nothing compared to the scrutiny that descended now. Every gaze in the ballroom seemed fixed upon them, whispers spreading like wildfire.The Duke of Beaushire, dancing with the disgraced daughter of Baron Trenton.
Elowen tried to ignore it, though the weight of their curiosity pressed like a hand against her back.
They must think he pities me,she thought.
And perhaps he did. Her beauty had always been her saving grace, but it could not outshine the stain upon her family’s name. No charm or wit could erase such a mark; it had doomed her to a quiet spinster’s fate long ago.
Then his hand closed around hers, and a spark ran through her—startling, heady. She told herself it was nothing more than natural attraction, a mere physical response any woman might have to so striking a man.
“How have you enjoyed the evening thus far, Miss Tremaine?”
His voice nearly startled her, deep and rich. When he drew her nearer, and the first notes of the waltz began, her heart fluttered wildly.
Goodness, I must compose myself.
“I am not, Your Grace.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She blinked, realising too late what she had said. “I meant—I do not need much to enjoy myself, Your Grace. You have hosted a splendid ball.”
“Something tells me that was not what you first intended to say.”
